Sunday, March 23, 2014

Twenty-four

Twenty-four is a weird year. 

I had something I was actually going to write about, a topic that would make me sound smart and hipster and cool and stuff. But I forgot it because the resounding thing I thought when I sat down, determined to write, was man. Twenty four is a weird year. 



I spend a lot of time at Starbucks these days, and I'm noticing that twenty-four, or whatever age it is for the regulars I see at Starbucks, is a weird year for them too. 

Here's something else I realized as I watched the at least twenty four year old attractive barrista make drinks for people with such a sweet smile it made everyone smile back at him. 

If I met me at a Starbucks or concert or bookstore, I probably wouldn't befriend me. 

I'd probably annoy myself and be just polite enough to get away as quickly as possible. I would smile that smile I use only when I am annoyed and I would answer yes or no to questions. I wouldn't make eye contact or laugh at my stupid jokes, not say 'let's get lunch sometime'. Or if I did, it would be to get myself to stop talking so I could leave. 

And yet I would love myself. 

I would dote upon myself, insisting on luxury and class. Because that's what I do to myself now. 

I am annoyed constantly by my own mouth, by the words that slip out, unthought and uncared. 

I am painfully aware that I am a walking contradiction, which maybe is what annoys me most of all. 

I carefully pick out my clothes, taking far too much time and energy to be sure I am comfortable. And yet I rarely am. I judge myself based on how those are dressed around me. I want to take her dress, her shoes, his sweater, her hat. I will style myself in my mind based on selections from those I see. 

I am careful with my hair, using expensive shampoo, buying countless products to make it shine and divine, as the bottles promise. And yet I constantly look in the reflective glass of passing cars or the sunglasses of those walking by to make sure every strand is in its proper place, yelling at the strands with severe words if they are not. I envy the girls around me with long, beautiful locks that curl just right, or the girls who can pull off the short cuts with ease as if they had a team of hair stylists with them just two seconds ago to make it the perfect amount of crazy and stylish. 

I read in some magazine one time that the writer interviewed like five different guys and they all said confidence was the sexiest thing on a girl. Maybe that's why I rarely feel sexy. 

How do the other girls do it? More importantly, how do girls gain enough confidence and security to become women? I'm still waiting for the day I no longer feel like a small child girl and can wear heels with ease and lipstick like a real woman. 

Maybe when I get there, I would meet myself in a Starbucks or concert or bookstore and think, "If only she were my best friend. She is what I'd like to be." 

I bet everyone feels this way at 24, right? 

When did 24 become the new 17? 

There is a couple on a date in this Starbucks with me and the woman looks as if she is full of confidence. She is doing that thing where when he makes a joke, she laughs adorably, then puts a strand of hair behind her head, which makes him beam, even though the joke was really corny. 

Someday I'd like to be as a confident twenty-four year old as she is. 

Man, twenty-four is a weird year. 


Thursday, March 13, 2014

X

I wanted to write a blog entry today.

And then I opened up a new post and literally could think of nothing to say.

It feels that way a lot lately.

I want to have things to say. I think of things to say at awkward times, or I know I have strong and reasonable opinions about things that I should let out at the proper times. I know discussion (or even blog posts) of important things or big picture things or deep things or silly things or entertainment things is, well, important. Discussing things out loud or on paper can make life seem worthwhile.

But most of the time lately I don't feel like I should say very much, that I should keep waiting in silence.

I should wait until I have my life together more before getting into deep discussion with people I meet, I think. I should wait until I have a little more experience under my belt.

I should wait to actively have a blog until I've done more life.

What does that even mean, I ask myself as I sit in a Starbucks for the umpeenth time job hunting and trying to figure out what to do when I grow up (which is apparently now).

I don't know what that means.

I don't know what most things mean, to be honest.



I don't know what it means to be an adult. I know things that make up adulthood - bills, learning how to do your taxes, getting the store brand of crackers and coffee because you're balancing your money, not drinking all night long because you have work at eight a.m. But I have no idea what it means to be an adult. Maybe that's because it means so many things to everyone, and I'm still learning what it means to me.

I don't know what it means to be a Christian. I know things that make up Christianity - a desire to serve God, having consistent conversation with Him, thinking of God first, people second, and yourself third, committing to the fact that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. But I have no idea what it means to be a Christian. Maybe that's because it means so many things to everyone, and it's a life-long journey and I firmly believe God doesn't expect us to have "Christianity" figured out the moment we give our life to Him, we just have to give our life to Him.

I don't know what it means to be a writer. I know things that make up being a writer - drinking copious amounts of black coffee (I'm becoming a coffee drinker the longer I write), having constant internal conversations with the characters and scenes going on in your head, feeling like you're going to explode if you don't get that thing out right that second, even if it's complete and utter crap, because revision sucks but it's how we make that crappy thing a full idea. But I have no idea what it means to be a writer. Maybe that's because it means so many things to everyone, and each writer will tell you their own crazy and well, just plain crazy methods they have of writing and revising and getting inspiration, whether that be staring at people in Starbucks until an idea strikes them, staying the shower until you come up with a new character, or watching entire seasons of tv shows in the hopes of latching on to some idea you can make your own.

Huh. I said I had nothing to say. But sometimes when I have nothing to say and I don't want to say anything is exactly when things come out the best.

Desperation can be ugly, but apparently it can also get me to write when all I want to do is curl up on my bed and watch Dean kill demons and ghosts until I forget we're not best friends in real life.